i'd follow you (down, down, down)
by ElectricClover
Summary: HermioneTom —- or, tom is a green-eyed boy and hermione is a girl with the world at her fingertips, but together they are powerful.


_A/N: A royalty!au written for the Houses Competition. 2D and AJ are angels for beta-ing this mess, so thank you both._

 _House: Ravenclaw_

 _Category: Themed 2_

 _Prompt: Wishing Well_

 _Word Count (excluding a/n): 3508_

* * *

She is only ten years old, playing in the gardens of her summer palace, twisting daisies into make-believe crowns underneath the blinding sun. The lush meadow stretches out endlessly before her, a vast and undiscovered world of vibrant green.

The world is simpler outside the palace, clearer, and she finally has the chance to just be free. She has always been jealous of the princes of the kingdom, who run and leap and play, without worrying about whether it's proper or ladylike. They don't have to ride side-saddle. But out here, if she wants, she can be a fearsome knight or a fire-breathing dragon; she can be anything.

In the far distance, a dark spot on the horizon gradually moves closer. It's coming from the direction of the palace. Vaguely, she wonders whether it's her mother, come to tell her to get off the grass and revise her Latin conjugations. The air shimmers with the heavy heat of summer, so she can't quite make out a face. It's a boy, she can tell that much, but she doesn't recognise him. He comes up to her, hands her a rose, as if he's pulled it out of thin air, and says, "It's just like you, Princess."

Her brow furrows in confusion. She is a girl, this is a flower, and they are nothing alike. "Why?"

"It's beautiful." He looks at her, almost shyly, his mouth twitching with the ghost of a grin.

She doesn't yet know that this is the type of boy that she shouldn't be talking to, that he should be _invisible_ to her, so she smiles like a sunbeam and says, "I'm Hermione."

He laughs lightly. "I know, Princess. I'm Tom."

In that moment, the long days of summer stretch out before them, full of the promise of laughter and friendship. She sees it like a dawning horizon, the start of something brighter to come.

He waits for her each afternoon, down by the meadow of daisies that always seems to be full of flowers, despite the chains they make. Every day she runs to meet him, as soon as she is set free from lessons in deportment, manners, which spoon to use for which soup, and other such things. She learns that he spends his mornings cleaning the chimneys dotted around her lavish home. Instantly, she is jealous of his apparent freedom, and begs to know more about his life.

"I'm an apprentice," he tells her proudly, as they sit by the lake, eating sour green apples they'd scrumped from the orchard. "Gellert says I'm the best he ever had."

"Well," she replies, eyes sparkling with a childlike amusement. "You might be a good chimney sweeper but you're not very good at eating apples. You've got juice all down your chin."

He tilts his head slightly, but doesn't reply.

"What?" Hermione demands, and inches closer to him. He smells like warm dust and fire, and his nose is smudged with black soot. "What're you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking," Tom says slowly, a smirk on his lips. "I'm thinking about whether or not I can push you into the lake from here."

"No!" She stands up and starts to flee, but he is too quick, and soon his arms are wrapped around her waist and he's hauling her to where the clear water laps at the grass. "No, Tom, I'm wearing a new dress, Mother had it made specially, she'll _kill_ me -"

Hermione crashes through the glass-like surface of the lake, her shrieks filling the air. Toms waits, one, two, three seconds, and a gasping girl emerges from the water, bedraggled and soaked, hair plastered to her face.

"I am going to murder you!" she threatens, but he can hear the mirth in her voice, and so he legs it towards the castle. Hermione is fast, though, and, just before he can get to the servant's entrance, she pounces, knocking them both to the ground.

They lie there for a while, breathless and giggling, basking in the warmth of the beating sun. The world is painted with hues of red and gold, and Hermione thinks that, if they really want it to, the summer might last forever, full of sour apples, and far too much giggling and euphoria to be _proper_. Tentatively, Tom reaches out a hand and she takes it. They lie together for a while, warm, grass-stained, and _happy_.

Good things never last long, however, and soon they leave the summer palace - soon Hermione is made to leave Tom.

* * *

Her family does not visit the palace for another six years.

"It is such a long trip," Hermione's mother would say whenever she asks, "And besides, the weather is much nicer in the city during the summer." Hermione doesn't quite believe her.

But now the palace in the city is being renovated and they have no choice but to go back. Hermione is no longer a girl, she is a woman and Tom is a _man_ , and the _what ifs_ , the possibilities, are infinite, and electrifying.

Her mother is right, the journey seems endless, and the harrassed chatter of the grown-ups is not enough to distract Hermione from her growing anticipation. Her father's exhausted face tells her it is something important, but she pays no attention, because she is young, and naive, and she has never even been _kissed_.

She thinks this might be the summer that her entire life is going to change. No longer will she sit at balls, envious of the other girls who regale her with tales of illicit romances and secret trysts. She will be one of them, not a child, not a green-eyed little girl. She will have her own story to tell.

When the coach finally comes to a jittering stop on the palace's long driveway, Hermione doesn't even pause to take in the view. She leaps from the carriage and dashes across the lawn and down to their spot by the lake. Her dress flaps around her ankles and her mother calls after her, but it means nothing. The promise of reunion tastes sweet on the tip of her tongue, and she knows, she just _knows_ , that he will be there. He'll have to have heard that her family was going to be there, he'll show up.

She settles on the lawn, and smooths out the red silk of her skirt. Tom is nowhere to be seen, but the sun is still high in the sky and he is probably still working. She is jealous that he gets to live in their paradise all year round, never has to leave the green meadows. So, she lies back against a grassy knoll and waits, the sun sparkling on the surface of the lake.

Hours later, the sky is awash with hazy hues of sunset. Her dress appears purple in the light, but there is no one to admire it with her. Tom has still not appeared, and the flutter of anticipation in her chest is all but gone. With a half-weary sigh, she picks herself up from the lakeshore and trudges back up to the palace.

The next morning she is woken up by her mother, which has never happened before in her life.

"What are you doing, Mother? Where's Lavender?"

Her mother stares at her blankly.

"My lady-in-waiting, Mother," she sighs, exasperated. They had only stayed at the summer palace every year until she was ten.

"Oh, yes. Well, they're all gone. The new staff will arrive tomorrow - you needn't worry, darling." A jolt of realisation shoots through Hermione, and she bolts upright in bed.

"Gone? Why are they gone?"

Her mother titters and waves her hand dismissively. "You couldn't expect us to keep them on while we weren't here, could you?"

A lump rises in Hermione's throat, and her heart starts racing again. "Mother, would you excuse me? I-I need to get dressed."

Minutes later, she's wearing her favourite day dress, a pale yellow gown that her mother says is stunning against her dark skin. She gathers her curls away from her face and pulls on her shoes, already sprinting down the grand staircase.

"I'll be back soon, Mother," she calls in the direction of the drawing room, and flings open the heavy oak doors. Blinding light streams towards her and she pauses, just for a second, letting the sun and nostalgia wash over her. Then she's off, gathering up her skirts and sprinting flat out down the driveway, her heart thumping with elation and a little fear - because _what if she can't find him?_

Before long, Hermione's running down the rough path that leads to the local village, avoiding the potholes and puddles that litter the road. She is breathless, and the sticky air is making her dress' countless layers of petticoats stick to her legs with sweat and grainy dirt.

She drags herself up to the top of a grassy hill, and the village appears below her. Joyful shouts trail behind her on the wind, and she bolts towards the cluster of buildings, her excitement growing with every step.

The path winds its way through the derelict buildings and ramshackle huts of the town. It looks more run-down than she remembers, the people wandering past her look thinner, dirtier. It confuses her, but she puts the change down to childish optimism and memories faded with time. Her run slows to a job, and finally, a fast walk, exhausted by the journey. Hermione ambles past the marketplace, half of the stalls abandoned, crates upturned and free of wares. She is about to walk on, when a hoarse voice catches her ear.

"Princess?" Hermione turns at the sound, the voice ever so slightly familiar. "Princess Hermione?"

There is a woman standing behind one of the stands and, though her clothes are nothing more than rags and her face is lined, she looks like she might have been beautiful, once. A golden ringlet escapes from underneath the tatters of the girl's hood, and Hermione gasps.

"Lavender?" She can't believe that this girl, this girl covered in grime and soot, is Lavender. Lavender, who was her lady-in-waiting since she could talk, who was never without a carefully made-up face, whose apron was always spick and span. "Lavender, what...what happened?"

Lavender's pale blue eyes stare coldly out at Hermione from underneath her torn hood. "Your family happened. Look around you, Princess. When we get fired, you destroy families, you destroy _lives_."

Hermione feels sick. "I'm so sorry, I-I didn't know, Lavender, I'm-" A small sob escapes her lips. But Lavender laughs, and when she does it's a harsh, cruel sound Hermione would never have dreamed she'd hear from her.

"I bet you are, Princess. It must be so _hard_ for you, being waited on hand and foot up in your fancy castle. Don't you know how lucky you are?" Her face is twisted with rage and jealousy, and Hermione doesn't think she's ever seen anyone so wretched. The lines on her face are harder, eyebrows pulled together. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster, has claimed her once sweet soul.

"Lavender, I'm going to fix this. I promise." She bites her lip, hesitant to ask something of the woman who so clearly has nothing. "I just, d'you know where I can find Tom? But I swear, I won't forget about you."

Lavender, albeit reluctantly, gives her directions and Hermione walks away from the marketplace, Lavender's envious sneers burning into the back of her head.

Soon, she comes to the edge of the village, where the houses are nothing more than lean-tos, salvaged from scrap metal and rotting wood. Smoking outside one of the shacks is a boy, with coal black hair and emerald green eyes. His face is covered in soot, but Hermione can _tell_.

"Tom!" she shouts, and hope swells up inside of her when he turns towards her. "Tom, is that you? It's Hermione."

He turns towards her, his lip curling into a sneer. She backs up slightly. "Princess? Never thought I'd see you again."

"Well, I'm here," she shrugs. It isn't like she thought it would be, and disappointment pricks at her chest. He doesn't reply, just takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette, staring at her. "I could go, if you want…" She trails off and stares at the floor, digging the tip of her boot into the loose gravel of the path.

"No!" Something flickers across Tom's face, a look of realised opportunity. He walks towards her and slings an arm around her shoulder. "I've got something I'd like to show you."

An hour later, they are standing at the palace gates, the awkwardness of time passed still hanging stagnant in the air between them. "I don't think the guards will let you in, Tom."

He winks at her, and smiles, his teeth yellow and stained against the soot covering his face. "Don't worry, Princess. I can get us in."

Tom grasps Hermione's delicate hand in his own, calloused one and butterflies resume their familiar dance in her stomach. They skirt around the high wall that encloses Hermione's home, until they come to the back of the castle, where the bricks have crumbled away. Tom scrambles over the wall and pulls Hermione over with him.

It takes them to a part of the gardens Hermione has never been to before. The hedges are wild and overgrown, the roses thorny and branching over the worn footpaths. Weeds spring up in every direction, and it almost looks as if the garden is at war with itself, the untamed greenery fighting for space.

Tom leans down and whispers in her ear, his breath hot against her neck, "Close your eyes."

Hermione stumbles along blindly, tripping over the cracked stones of the pavement. "Where are you bringing me?"

"Patience, Princess!" Tom chuckles. "Just a little bit further...And open."

She does, gasping at the sight. It's a well, the ivory stone fractured and draped with ivy, but still…

"It's beautiful."

Tom nods and walks forwards, leans against the edge of the well and stares down into the darkness. His face is void of the smile that illuminated it only moments ago, and Hermione can't quite work out the expression on his face. "It's a wishing well." His voice is sharp, bitter. "Some say if you make a wish into it, it will come true." He laughs, a cracked, broken sort of sound. "I'm still waiting."

He sounds so different from the boy she met six summers ago, and Hermione can't help but wonder what happened.

"What do you wish?"

Tom is silent for a moment, as if he's searching for the right words to say. His words are rushed, like he's desperate for them to finally be heard and understood. "Do you ever want more than what you have? Like you need something, _anything_ , and you're so, you're so _jealous_ of the people that have what you want, that you'd do _anything_ to get it." Hermione shakes her head, but Tom doesn't even glance up at her. "I don't think you know how lucky you are, Princess. I envy you honestly, you have so much power right at your fingertips. You could be great, you know."

He turns towards her now, and his eyes look more green than Hermione remembers.

"I don't understand. Why would you envy me?" Tom looks at her incredulously. "No, I know I'm lucky but you're free. If anyone should be jealous, it's me."

He scoffs and reaches towards her, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "You could be free. I could show you how."

Something sparks in her brain, a longing she didn't know she had igniting in a burst of green flame, and Hermione thinks she does know what Tom was talking about. It is her job to sit around and look pretty and wait around for a man, but maybe she could be something _more_.

"How?" Tom smiles at the word, and digs two small, copper pennies out of the pocket of his torn trousers.

"Hermione, just imagine if you were Queen. No bowing down to your father, no bowing down to anyone. You wouldn't _need_ to be jealous anymore, you would have _everything_." Eagerly, she snatches the coin out of his hand and holds it over the abyss. "And I could be right by your side."

She closes her eyes, and lets go. Hermione is so focused on the chime of the coin as it hits the water below, that she doesn't notice the way Tom's emerald eyes shine hungrily in the afternoon sunlight, so very different from all those years ago.

* * *

Five years later, Hermione realises she was right. The summer of the wishing well was the summer of opportunity, the summer her entire life would change. Wishes do come true, after all.

Her father had fallen ill only weeks after she dropped the coin and made her wish. Coincidence, maybe, that they could not find a doctor in the kingdom who could explain the illness, and that Hermione found a bottle of lime-green liquid in Tom's shack the following day. A tonic, he'd said, for a cough, but Hermione was not so sure.

They have everything they'd dreamed of now, so Hermione doesn't mind. It was just means to an end, and she, out of anyone, can understand that.

The spark that Tom caught fire that day never burnt out, even when the King's advisors decided that she should be Queen. She has power, of that there is no question, but the jealousy remains. The naive girl from not so long ago seems worlds away, her eyes now as green as those of the man she loves. She hungers for the power of others, and craves _everything_ there is to be had.

Tom proposed, on the day of her coronation, and she'd said, _Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!_

They were happier, back then. He still yearns for more than he has, unsatisfied with being King Consort and Hermione knows there is not much more that she can give him. She knows how dangerous that could be, if she doesn't stop it.

Together, they have conquered kingdoms, declared countless wars, betrayed allies, slaughtered civilians and armies alike, all in the name of greatness. It had been a blur at first, a haze of _more_ and _want_ and _give it to me now_. They were as bad as each other, two snakes poised to strike, jealousy dripping like venom from every pore. If they decided they wanted the beaches of the Bahamas, the snow-capped peaks of Nepal, the emerald jungles of Brazil, they would have them. _How_ was now a question neither of them asked.

What Tom does not realise is that she is not the same girl she was before, no longer the child making daisy chains in a meadow. The crown weighs heavy on her head, and each law passed, each declaration of war signed, blackens the hunk of coal that rots in her chest. Hermione sees the glint in Tom's eyes, the envy that flares up inside of him when she gets what he wants. She sees the weapons amassing in the dungeons, the soldiers gathering in the village, hears the tick of a bomb about to go off. She knows the death toll and ignores it.

She is the Queen, she gets what she wants no matter what the cost, and she is ready for _war_.

* * *

Lying between them is a wasteland of carnage, and destruction, and broken glass, of dreams lying, shattered, amongst pale corpses. She lifts her chin, proud, uncaring, strong, and looks over the world they've created, _together_.

It is beautiful, she thinks.

The summer palace is mere wreckage, just like the rest of the kingdom, ravaged by the wars that have raged between them. Seeing her home in ruins is something that would have once crushed her, made her cry like the weak little girl she was, but now she relishes in it. It reminds her that she can simply buy a new one, if she so chooses.

Really, she is too far gone to care.

He planted the seeds in her head and her heart, long ago, when she was too trusting to say no. She hadn't seen him for what he was, he was just the servant boy with hair as black as the soot that smeared his clothing.

She didn't notice the jealousy in his eyes, the poison lacing his words.

If she had, maybe she wouldn't be here, standing beside a wishing well and surveying the annihilation of her childhood dreams. But, as much as the jealousy that he cultivated inside of her brought her nothing but destruction, it also brought her _power_.

Now she knows that there is nothing as alluring as that.

He had taught her, the perfect princess how to lie and twist her words, how to use her pretty face as a facade, how to do absolutely anything to get what she wants.

Now, she has _everything_.


End file.
